


Your Daughter

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon compliant until HLV, Emotional Sherlock Holmes, Fatherhood, Fluff, Getting Together, Hugs, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Newborn, Not an ounce of s4, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, an s3 fic for those who don't like s3, and the John Watson we all know and love, series 3 fix-it, the baby isn't even called Rosie unless that's what you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Five times Sherlock held John's baby and one time he held John.John didn't forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock, so the end of HLV didn't happen. When the baby comes John lives with Sherlock at Baker Street, and they take care of the newborn together. Sherlock adores her more than he's prepared for. Oh, and he might have something important to confess to John...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 260
Kudos: 630
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [S](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=S).



> Hello again, darlings! Sorry for the long absence - stuff happened! For example this:
> 
> Seven weeks ago my housemate had a baby, and I was with her during the birth. Her daughter now lives here with us. She is the best baby. This story is for her.
> 
> I didn't think I'd ever write another S3 compliant fic, but this one invaded my brain and refused to be ignored. It's set in an alternate universe where John didn't forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock but instead moved back to Baker Street. Mary is 100% a villain. I've mentioned her as little as I possibly can, as I can't stomach her character, so if you're a fan of her you might not enjoy this fic.
> 
> This time, my thanks goes to the brilliant [Berty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty) for helping me out with the beta-read! She writes gorgeous Johnlock herself, so go check out her stuff if you haven't already.
> 
> I have written the fic in its entirety - it's not a WIP! I will post the chapters one by one as my beta and I tidy them up.

She is thirty minutes old and remarkably light in my hands. Five pounds and eight ounces, give or take. Markedly below the average birth weight, although still within the normal range. But learning a fact is one thing; experiencing it with my own senses is a different matter entirely.

Her head is cradled in my left hand and her bum fits in the palm of my right. I carefully slide my arms beneath her delicate body, letting her rest on my forearms. Staring at her face and infinitely careful about where I set my feet, I make for the exit of the empty building.

Halfway there I encounter a couple of policemen. Not quite as quick as I am, as per usual. Thankfully they recognise me and do not question my right to hold her. As they pause to exchange a few short words I keep expecting them to see that I do not belong here and tear her from my arms. The fact that they don't, that they leave her with me, shakes me in a deep way I am not yet prepared to process.

They ask me if the building is clear and I inform them that it is; the captors evidently cleared out as soon as the baby was delivered. What exactly happened in here is something I find myself disinterested in knowing. This time I do not wish to be the one to examine the scene and lay out a narrative. Morstan's enemies held her in this abandoned gymnasium, and after the birth they left; that's enough for me. Right now, I don't even care whether Mary is dead or alive. She is not important any longer.

The only thing of importance is to bring this child to John.

She was screaming when I entered the building; a reassuring sound. It means she is responsive. It means she is breathing. I found her in a locker room, alone and wrapped up in a towel. Instinctively I started talking to her and she silenced immediately. I wondered for a moment whether she recognised my voice, but no; I have not seen Morstan for several months.

Neither has John. I know he has worried about attachment and connection; that if we ever did find his child, she would somehow be less his because he wasn't there throughout the pregnancy to speak to her. I knew, however, that this was the least of his concerns. If we caught Morstan before she gave birth, or found the child after the event, the baby would know immediately that John was someone she could trust. His voice is soothing. It's curious to me that he seems not to know this, but then again, I never did tell him.

There was blood on the towel but it wasn't hers. Not wanting anything to do with either the scene I found her at or the people who had been there before me, I left the towel behind. Instead I put my scarf around her – soft silk and cashmere against her still-sticky skin – and then took off my suit jacket to wrap her up in it.

Now I can only see the upper half of her face. Her tiny nose peeks out of the blue fabric of the scarf. She has a shocking amount of hair; dark-blonde streaks of it are plastered against her forehead. Her eyes are open. She blinks, silent and alert. I try to shield her face without quite succeeding, quietly asking her if she is sure she shouldn't close her eyes for a bit. But she stubbornly keeps them wide open, looking at the strange world she has been abruptly brought into.

I don't dare look away. It feels as though I am gazing straight into the sun, but I keep looking because for her it must be even more daunting. I do not want to let her down by being so much less brave than she is.

When we pass patches of streetlight spilling in from the windows I notice traces of John in her features. The nose I do not recognise, but there is something about her eyes. They are still dark and cloudy – it will be a while before they brighten to blue – but I can see John in the shape of them. There is something about the eyebrows, too.

There is no doubt that this girl has come from John, and she is a whole person. Tiny and complete. I cannot quite believe it. She is brand new, and just by existing she is now the sole focus of all my attention. Suddenly, carrying her through this building feels like the most important thing I have ever done in my life.

I am the first to hold her. I am the one to carry her from the room she was born in and out into the vastness of the world.

We are approaching the opened exit. I draw the jacket further up around her face to spare her the flashing lights outside. Aside from the police cars there is also an ambulance here – good. And then there is the sleek, black car just pulling up in the car park.

 _You're in luck, little one_ , I murmur. _My brother has brought John to you._

Just before I step out of the building, I find myself overwhelmed by the attention that will soon be focused upon me. I know I am secondary in this scene, of course; the child in my arms is the highest priority for everyone present. It's just that I, Sherlock Holmes, am holding her like a parent would. I, and no one else, am carrying her out into the world. When John lays eyes on me, he will see me holding a bundle in my arms in the unmistakable way that you only ever hold a baby. I feel unworthy and terrified; I feel honoured and desperately proud.

I step out the door. There is a palpable sigh of relief in the air when police officers and medical personnel see me. The night air is chilly through my shirt-sleeves but I never want this jacket back. I want it to protect her for all time.

The passenger door of the black car opens and John steps out. He hasn't spotted us yet. Even in the red-and-blue lights I can see that his skin has a greyish tone, parched with worry. His shoulders are drawn up. Eyes huge from fear. Then he turns his head.

The transformation of John's features happens in a split second and is the purest thing I have ever witnessed. He almost jerks, eyes coming alive with a crystal clear moment of joy, lips forming a silent _O_. His eyebrows draw together in an aching emotion I cannot name; some combination of relief, gratitude and love is my best guess, but I have rarely observed anything like it, especially on John's face. Stoic, sturdy, collected John. I am humbled by the absolute certainty that no one has ever seen his heart on his face as clearly as I just did.

He composes himself before a full second has passed. He starts walking towards us, and when I take the final steps I am gripped by fear of letting her go. I know she and John are only going to the hospital and will likely be back home soon. But I do not know what my place in her life is. They will live with me at Baker Street, but for how long? And what happens after? What does John want me to be to them – to her?

But as I keep my eyes fixed on her, I suddenly know. Perhaps she will not always live with me; perhaps John and I will not always be as close as we currently are. But she and I can be whatever we want to each other. This new person has her whole life before her, and she gets to decide for herself what she wants. If I want to be here for her, I can, and if she wants to keep me, she will.

There is no way I am ever leaving her. Not after this. This walk through an abandoned gymnasium feels like a promise I have made to her that I will sooner die than violate. Inexplicably, I am tied to her after this.

I stop before John. His eyes sear into mine for a moment. Just as is the case with his daughter, I am equally terrified of looking back and of looking away. Then it's over and his gaze drops to the bundle in my arms.

As soon as I am relieved of the deceptively inconsequential weight of her, everything seems to whirl into motion. Paramedics come jogging towards us, leading John to the back of the ambulance, and there is a renewed focus on the crime scene behind me from the police. They assume I intend to help them deducing where Morstan and her captors have gone to, but I have no such intention. I convince them to leave me be on the condition that I come in tomorrow to give them my statement, and then there is nothing left for me to do.

I remain awkwardly standing in the middle of the busy car park, shivering slightly in my thin shirt. I can feel my brother's eyes on me from across the scene, no doubt meaning to offer me a ride home, but I refrain from meeting his gaze. I cannot be in a car with him right now. I need to be alone, need to breathe the fresh air only anonymity can bring.

I cast a last glance into the back of the ambulance where they are preparing for departure. The paramedics look focused but not overly concerned; John looks worn. She is merely a roll of hospital blankets in his arms; my jacket and scarf were evidently discarded in a quick examination. Clearly, I am not needed here any longer, so I swiftly walk by them.

John calls my name just after I have passed.

I stop and turn, surprised that he even saw me in a moment such as this. He looks up at me from his seat inside the ambulance, gaze direct. He fumbles for words for a second before he gets out a _Thank you, Sherlock._

I don't know if I'm imagining the way he looks frantic for not finding something more significant to say.

I hope I'm not. I hope desperately that John understands just as I do that I am tied to his daughter forever.


	2. 2

She is six hours old, she is at the hospital and I am not there. It is very nearly unbearable.

Obviously I do not sleep. When I got home to 221B Baker Street I was met with the chaos of two men having left the flat in a hurry, first me and later John. The floor was covered with the files I was browsing when I finally found my lead, and beside the sink a jar of jam was open from John's evening snack.

We are not prepared. I curse myself for it now. I've kept assuring John that we would find Morstan and get him his child, but have made no effort to actually make space for a baby in our home. What message did this send to John?

I started with cleaning. It felt strange; novel. When the floor was done and I had the vacuum cleaner in hand I realised that this was the first time in my life that I had voluntarily cleaned. And the most curious thing was that I did not mind it. I didn't even do it for fear of not being good enough; not really. I did it because I genuinely wanted to do something nice for John, help him so that his life would be easier.

It still shocks me when I get these bouts of selflessness, but I have to admit that it happens quite regularly these days. Since I stood on a rooftop and watched John on the ground below with a gun trained on his head, I have not been the same. And since I spent three years without John and then got him back, I have not particularly minded my change of character. I no longer wish to be alone. And I am no longer afraid to admit it, at least to myself.

When I finished cleaning, 221B was unrecognisable. But it was not enough. I went down the stairs and banged on Mrs Hudson's door until she opened it, curlers in place and pink dressing gown wrapped around her. I'd given her a fright, apparently, waking her in the middle of the night, but when I told her we have John’s baby all was forgiven. We spent the better part of an hour discussing life with a newborn and produced a list of necessary items. Now, annoyingly, I have to wait for the shops to open.

Everything has slowed down enough that I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the fireplace.

I look… radiant. I don't know how else to describe it. I have never seen my face do what it currently does, and I cannot even pinpoint where the change lies. If it didn't sound so horrifically unscientific I would say there is a new glow behind my eyes. The closest I have ever come to this is the night John first moved in with me. But that was a light of hope; bright yellow, nearly white. This is the glow of coals, a deep orange of devotion.

I need to get to the hospital. I need to feel the quiet weight of her and know that she is real.

There is no guarantee that I am welcome, however. This is not about me; this is about John. But then I remember that there are probably things he needs from home given the hurry in which he left, and without knowing where he was going. I should call him and ask, and then I could go there and deliver whatever items he requires.

I force myself to wait until eleven to call him – he might be asleep, which by this point he certainly needs – and in the meantime I go shopping.

It is shocking, the way my insides stir and clench when I look at cradles and pick up newborn clothes.

When I finally call John – one minute past eleven, so that he won't deduce that I waited until eleven sharp to call – I can feel tension draining from my shoulders and understand how anxious I have been for news. All is fine, John tells me. She did not suffer any discernible trauma in spite of the makeshift nature of her birth. Her weight is below average, as was my estimation, and they want to keep her in for a few nights of observation, but she is eating the formula without difficulties worth mentioning. I am quietly awed by her survival skills.

Lucky for me, he does have a list of items they need. Just when I have packed them all, the Detective Inspector from last night calls to pull me in for my statement. I am suddenly entirely unable to wait even a minute longer to get to the hospital. I brush him off brusquely, and when he insists I all but yell at him that I will come in later, LATER, just not now. It feels as though my heart has vacated my body and is currently waiting for me at the hospital.

She is thirteen hours old when I finally see her again. John is holding her against his chest, his shirt open to allow them to stay skin-to-skin. I only see the dark-blonde back of her head above the blanket. I wonder irrationally if she remembers me.

John looks tired but entirely calm. He watches me when I flutter about the hospital room, unpack the bag and show him the articles he asked for. He smiles at the baby clothes I present. I realise now that I am the one to have chosen the first clothes she will ever wear.

He doesn't ask me for news on Morstan, which is good. I don't have any, and the fact that he doesn't ask means he doesn't expect me to solve her case. I already knew he wouldn't, of course; she did put a bullet in me, after all.

I can tell that John is hungry. Probably needs to go to the bathroom too. I ask him if he would like me to hold her while he takes care of his own needs.

 _Would you?_ he asks me.

_Of course._

He nods. _If you're sure…_

If I'm SURE? I am so anxious to hold her ridiculous five pounds and eight ounces that I can barely sit.

 _Well then_ , John says, _let's find her some clothes._

Oh, but she is so little. She has a hard time keeping her temperature up. To separate her from John's warm skin, to isolate her in fabric and blankets… I almost choke on the words before I get them out, afraid to overstep, afraid to assume – but she needs this, and I need this.

 _I can open my shirt. Keep her skin-to-skin._ I start rambling about the many positive health effects of oxytocin from skin-to-skin contact on newborn children, but John comes to my rescue, cutting me off and simply asking where I want to sit.

I undo the top buttons of my shirt. John carefully lifts her out of the blankets. She is unbelievably little; smaller than any other human I have encountered. The sight of her hands stops the breath in my throat; they look like John's, and they are perfect in every detail – only so, SO much smaller.

_How can you be so perfect?_

John makes a soft humming sound. I wonder if I said that out loud.

She settles on my chest. Her skin is warm, softer than silk. I wrap the edges of my shirt around her and cover us both with her blanket. She falls asleep immediately, and after making sure we are fine John leaves the room. I take the opportunity that solitude offers to stare at her face and ache.

She is no weight at all on top of my breastbone. Her head rests in the hollow beneath my right clavicle, slightly tilted back so I can see it. It makes her mouth drop open a bit. Her eyelids are smooth with trust.

I could weep from relief.

It feels like the sudden appearance of sun at the end of a gloomy November. When you have all but forgotten what sunlight looks like and simply adjusted to life in cloudy dusk. Without warning, the sun finds a gap in the clouds and pours life right into you.

Her right hand has come up to rest near my suprasternal notch, fist closed. My heart lies in this frighteningly breakable hand.

I note with wonder how all that seemed hugely important before is paling into insignificance when I hold this little person in my arms. Fear, heartbreak and lost hopes lose their weight in the face of her acute presence. Looking at her, it doesn't seem so daunting to bear it any more.

When I close my eyes I see the blur of my mind palace in refurbishment. Quite automatically it changes the order of all my priorities until she is on top of everything.

I rest and let it happen.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response to the beginning of this fic! This chapter covers some background to the situation Sherlock and John are in right now. There will be at least one more chapter tomorrow, but first I need to sleep!

She is one week old when she arrives at Baker Street. I stumble away from the window when I see John step out of the cab with her in his arms, afraid I will tear up if I watch her enter 221B for the first time.

 _See, this is your home_ , John says to her when he climbs the stairs. For a second I don't know what to do with myself. How did I win the honour of being allowed to share a home with this little person?

I have kept the place meticulously clean. John is quite awe-struck when he steps into the flat. I am used to him making this face because of something I did, but the reason has always been my genius. Usually he compliments me by calling me _brilliant_ and _extraordinary_ ; this time I suspect he's trying to thank me for my efforts without choking up. I try not to blush.

He puts her in the cradle I've placed between the sofa and the table. She is asleep.

 _I'm just going to…_ John hovers uncomfortably.

 _Please_ , I say, adding an eye-roll to make him feel at home. _I know you want to wash your hands; you also didn't brush your teeth this morning. You want to unpack your bag and take stock of everything you have and everything you need. Oh, and you're craving tea. I have no issue with keeping an eye on her._

 _Yeah?_ John asks, because he can be very dim sometimes.

 _Obviously_ , I sigh with some impatience.

John goes to the bathroom and I lower myself onto the sofa. This is absolutely fantastic. The sounds of someone else running water in the sink; the sensation of John's compact and reassuring presence within these walls; and then her, lying in the cradle as if she's always been a part of 221B.

She quickly notices something is different, though. She is clever; senses the new smells and sounds, concludes she might need to be awake for this. She kicks her little legs, blinks blindly, whimpers. I pick her up.

 _Hello again_ , I say, low so that she will know I speak only to her. _I missed you._

She is not impressed by this. Just when she is about to start screaming, an impulse prompts me to start waltzing with her. I hold her upright against my chest the way I did last time, humming the first waltz that comes to mind.

She quiets, listening to my voice from inside my rib cage; listening to my heart too I bet. I keep rocking her gently in dance. When John comes back she is asleep again.

He pauses on the threshold, watching us with a private smile.

_That's lovely._

At once I am dizzy and have to sit in my chair. He did not mean just her; he meant the display of her and me. And we ARE lovely; I already knew that. Still it's thrilling to know that he sees it too.

He sinks down into his chair opposite mine, a cup of tea in hand. He looks entirely at ease; as if nothing has changed over the past week. As if nothing has happened when in fact everything has. If I didn't know better I'd have thought the news had failed to reach him.

 _I can take over if you-_ , he starts half-heartedly, but I wave it away.

 _Please, drink your tea._ He does. I watch him. After a few moments he meets my gaze, anticipating my question. _Are you all right?_

He lowers his gaze to the surface of the tea. Then he slowly nods. _Mary's dead._

There is not much to say to that. I hum and adjust my hold on the back of her head.

_How sure are we?_

I love it when John talks about us as a plural. It reminds me that he will trust me with this: _I identified her myself._

_So – very._

_Very._

Twilight is settling over London. Neither of us moves to turn on the lights. The half-dark must make it difficult for him to see my face in the backlight from the windows; perhaps this helps when he keeps talking, voice soft and low so as not to disturb her.

_It doesn't even feel that different. You know what I mean? She was already dead as far as I was concerned. If anything, it makes things easier. For the baby._

_You married her_ , I say, speaking as low as he did. _You are entitled to grieve._

 _I already did that_ , he reminds me. _I mean, I suppose it's sad to think about her… you know, her fate. Yeah, that's tragic. In the way any criminal's fate is tragic. And the way she had to give birth – I don't wish that upon anyone. But on a personal level? She was our enemy. She wasn't my wife – she NEVER was. So, yeah. I'm all right._

I am reminded of the last time we spoke like this; soft words and honest voices. It was five months ago, the night I was released from hospital after Morstan shot me in the chest. I opened the door to 221B to find John on the sofa, watching telly in his pyjamas.

 _You’re living here_ , I remember saying, startled by my deduction.

_Yeah. That okay?_

He barely even looked up at me, casual and care-free. It was as though no time had passed since we last shared this space, back when John was always running one step behind me wherever I went, back when his eyes were bright and his smile kind when he looked at me. Before I lost him during the three seconds it took me to fall to the pavement outside of St Bart's hospital.

 _Of course_ , I told him. _You can stay here for as long as you need while you work things out with-_

 _Don't say Mary._ He turned his head to me. The last three years were at once back on his face; he looked so much more worn than my John from before. Still there was something in his eyes now that had not been there since my return. A determined gleam that I only then realised I had been starving for. _That's not her name_ , he continued, speaking so fiercely he nearly spat. _I don't know what it is, but it sure isn't “Mary Morstan”, even less “Watson”. Were we even married, do you think, if she used a false name on the certificate?_

 _I believe not_ , I said dully, not knowing what else to address.

He pointed at the sofa cushion next to him. _Sit down, you're injured._

I sat, and he started looking me over. I tried to tell him the doctors had pronounced me recovered enough to release me not an hour ago, but soon noticed that his examination was mainly a means to touch me and reassure himself that I was fine. Meanwhile, I had the opportunity to watch him closely.

He was devastated at the truth about Morstan; I could see that. But there was something else there too. A sort of relief on his features. A return of will in his deep blue eyes. A sense of bad times coming to an end, and reality returning to the equilibrium it always strives for.

As though Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at Baker Street were an essential part of this equilibrium.

 _There might be something we can do, you know_ , I remember saying. _Magnussen-_

 _I don't care about Magnussen_ , John cut me off. _Don't do that._

_Do what?_

_Do everything you can think of for my relationship with Mary. You think it will make me happy, is that it? She SHOT YOU IN THE CHEST. She doesn't care if you die, Sherlock! You owe her nothing._

_I owe YOU_ , I protested. _And you chose her._

He leaned in closer to me. _That doesn't matter now. She shot you in the chest. That is something I will never forgive for as long as I live. Do you understand me?_

His jaw was set and he stared at me so fiercely. His passion felt like a punch in the face and I could only nod.

We talked that night about everything that had happened. About the fall; about what came after. He forgave me. He didn't say as much out loud, but I could see on his face the moment it happened. He understood. And he saw that I understood him as well. If he needed my forgiveness for marrying a person who wanted me dead, I am certain that he similarly found it on my face.

John did grieve the loss of Mary. But most of all, he grieved the way his life had turned out; OUR life, I suppose. From the moment he watched me fall and up until the shooting, when he nearly had to watch me die all over again. I believe it was less about the lost life as Mary Watson's husband and more about being a pawn in a game, with his unborn daughter ultimately on the line.

 _Mary is dead to me_ , he said. Now that she actually IS dead I can see that he really did mean that. He was unable to bury her and move on when she disappeared as she was still carrying his daughter in her womb, but by then she was no longer his wife but the enemy in our next case.

John is correct; he has already grieved. And this is not what his grief looks like. His eyes are clear where he sits across from me; he sips his tea and doesn't forget to drink it before it gets cold.

 _She is all right too_ , I tell him, because I suspect that nervous new fathers might need to hear it.

She is still dozing on my chest. The complete peace on her face is fascinating to me, especially in view of what John and I are currently discussing. There is something beautiful in her ability to live on and sleep on a stranger's chest even in the ashes of a world that could have been.

Though I am no stranger to her, am I? The way her hand grips my shirt collar seems to speak of familiarity. Probably just wishful thinking, but still.

 _It's funny_ , John says with a brittle smile, watching us. _Everything has been so shitty for us, and yet everything has turned out perfectly. Best-case scenario all the way through. You surviving a fall from a rooftop AND getting shot in the chest. Me and my daughter surviving an assassin in our house. You finding her in time. Her being healthy. Her being… her. You know?_

 _I know._ And it just slips out of me, honest and giddy: _We got the best baby._

John laughs.


	4. 4

She is three weeks old and hates sleeping alone. This works in my favour. She wants someone to hold her at all times, and as it is impossible for John to do that all by himself, she and I spend a great deal of our time together.

She has been asleep in my arms for two hours now and I am not bored. I don't know what it is with her and time, but it bends in a peculiar way around her.

Every time John transfers her to my arms I imagine that I will hold her for twenty minutes at the most. A moment of half-lying on the sofa with her on top of my chest, looking out the window, mentally preparing the next experiment I plan to conduct.

Twenty minutes become two hours in the blink of an eye, and I haven't gotten anywhere with the experiment. It is marvellous how not-boring it is to sit with her, look at her sleeping face and listen to her soft snuffing sounds. To be wrapped up in the baby smell emanating from her skin, her warmth seeping into my body.

I do realise that the oxytocin from our contact must affect me as well as her. That would explain how calm, safe and perfectly happy I feel. How addicted I am becoming to holding her. I can see how from an evolutionary standpoint, this emotion is chemically designed to encourage me to protect a child at all cost so that my species may survive. Such is the nature of “love”.

These days I find it more fascinating than annoying.

Oxytocin, I must conclude, is the most extraordinarily potent drug I have encountered. Never before in my life have I felt so at ease in my skin, so complete and so serene. I have searched for ways to still my racing mind for as long as I can remember; I cannot believe that in the end it was as simple as holding a baby for a few hours every day.

Our life is settling into a new routine. John's focus is on her at all times; he has the responsibility for her and every decision is ultimately his. He feeds her, changes her nappies and bathes her. As for me, my focus is also on her at all times only I am more surreptitious about it. I hold her whenever I get the chance, and I clean, cook and do the shopping when John is unable to. Even this I do not mind; I constantly crave being useful to John and to her. Whenever he asks me for help I find myself shooting up from my chair in something childishly similar to excitement.

The rest of the time I work. I solve low-risk cases from emails and phone calls; I do a few experiments on harmless materials. The time I spend on work is about a third of what I usually do and yet I am never bored.

How like a Watson to spring into my life and change everything simply by existing.

She stirs on my chest. I look down and see her face contorted in displeasure. She is about to wake up and is not happy with the state of matters.

 _Hello, little one._ I keep my voice deep and flowing. _It's all fine._

She disagrees. When she starts screaming I rise from the sofa, shushing her gently and falling into the waltz-steps again. John appears bleary-eyed from upstairs.

 _Time for food, probably_ , he rasps. Still half-asleep he goes into the kitchen to prepare a bottle of formula.

I start humming another waltz, exaggerating my steps to make her bounce. She silences. I look down at her and discover that she is staring at me with wide, gleaming eyes.

I have to remind myself to keep humming. I feel nervous when I look back at her; I have never seen her this awake. Yes, the first time I held her she was present too, but it was not like this. This intensity, this absolute attentiveness in her eyes is brand new. It's almost as if she is being born all over again.

She already knows my scent, my sounds and the touch of my hands. Now her eyes tell me that she wants to know the way I look, too. Somehow this feels like the ultimate test.

I open my mouth to sing the waltz a bit louder, and all of a sudden I know which song it is. I have not thought of it for many years, but it is very dear to me; it always seems to inspire a sense of contentment deep in me. I remember now why that is, through a conversation I once had with Father. He was listening to a record featuring this song and he told me that he'd had this album since I was a baby. Apparently he used to hold me in his arms and dance to it at night when I didn't want to sleep.

I have no conscious memory of those nights, of course. But my body must remember, I realise as I think back to the first time she cried in my arms. My instinct was to waltz with her.

Something about this realisation lodges a lump in my throat. I raise my gaze to the mirror and turn so that her face is reflected. Her eyes are glittering in the half-light from the red lamp in the corner, her gaze astonished and infinitely curious. My arms are wrapped protectively around her body which is still small enough to almost disappear beneath my large hands. I look up into my own face and find a jubilant smile there.

I rarely catch myself smiling this way. For me, smiles just do not come so easily. The expression reminds me of a younger version of Father.

This is what he must have looked like, holding me and waltzing. This waltz creates not only a link between her and me, but a chain that comes all the way from my own Father. It almost makes her a Holmes.

I have never felt the urge to reproduce; in fact, I know I will never have children of my own. She is it. Suddenly I wish that would make my parents into grandparents.

John enters the room with her bottle in hand. He pauses in the doorway, leans against the frame and watches us.

She has completely forgotten to complain by now. She is transfixed by the waltz, staring up at my face as if endlessly surprised by what she sees.

 _This wakefulness is a new stage in her development_ , I comment in a pause between measures.

_Yeah, something's happening today. Her eyes are getting bluer, too._

I can see what John means. The muddy brown from the day she was born is brightening into a deep blue.

_I knew she would get your eyes._

I stare back at her for a few more moments until my mind is blown by the notion that this person sprung out of John. When I look up, John has his phone in hand.

Smiling, he snaps a picture of us. I am entirely unprepared for the wave of emotion this stirs in me. I am unbearably proud to be seen as someone who held this most precious weight in my hands; I am overjoyed that he sees the loveliness of us and wants to remember it; I am desperate for him to take more pictures and immortalise the fact that I am here; that at this moment in time, I matter to her.

_Do you want to feed her?_

I briefly close my eyes. I need to pull myself together. I can do something as practical as feeding a baby without getting all sentimental about it.

She keeps staring up at me when I hold the bottle to her mouth. She drinks without fuss, apparently unperturbed about the food coming from me today. To her, that's the way things are and always have been; there is John and there is Sherlock, helping her stay alive.

I stare right back. I am keenly aware that if I look away for a few hours too long, she will have taken new leaps in maturation that I have missed my chance to observe and catalogue. At this rate, I will need to create an actual file to keep track of her development; her corner of my mind palace is already brimming with information.

When she has finished eating she throws up on my silk shirt. Alarmingly, I find this more adorable than annoying. And my shirt will smell of her when I’m no longer holding her.

She falls asleep on me again.


	5. 5

She is five weeks old and has finally reached the size of an average newborn baby. People who do not see her every day comment on how small she is; to me she is positively gigantic at this point. The changes she has gone through since birth are staggering.

I am sitting in the cafeteria at St Bart's hospital. She is in a baby carrier on my front. Although I was the one to buy the carrier this is the first time I’m wearing it. She fits snugly against my chest, pressing against my ribs so that I can feel her tiniest movement. She fell asleep within ten seconds of settling against me in spite of the unfamiliar smells and unforgiving lights of the hospital building.

She grows and changes every day. But when she is asleep like this, head just below my clavicle and face tipped up, mouth hanging open… she looks just the way she did on her second day when I held her against my skin. Now in retrospect I see how profound that moment was. It is etched into my mind irrevocably. I wonder if this is the way it's going to be for the rest of her life; if no matter how much she grows, when her head is at a certain angle I will always see that moment in her.

She had the last of her extra check-ups today. After she was born she lost some weight and has had to come into the hospital regularly. John has worried, but even an idiot could see how fast she has grown over the last week. I think it's ridiculous that John insists on going to the hospital to hear doctors tell us what I already know, but this time John had an appointment on his own after hers, so I kept my mouth shut for once. I did however roll my eyes behind the doctor's back.

When the paediatrician was finished with her I installed her in the baby carrier. John took a picture of us – again awakening a desperation in me at the priceless value of this photo that didn't even exist a second ago – before he rushed to his own doctor's appointment.

It feels like a bold claim to wear this thing in public. Everyone who sees me will believe me to be a new father.

When John comes back to the cafeteria, my coffee has just cooled enough that I dare drink it with her on my chest. He is in a good mood, optimistic about how well this outing is going. He offers to take over, which is of course a ridiculous idea when she is still sound asleep and snuffing happily in the baby carrier.

John orders tea and a biscuit instead. Just when it is served to him we are spotted.

_John Watson!_

John smiles genuinely at Mike Stamford who is approaching our table with three other white-coated people. It quickly becomes obvious that they are all friends from university. I loathe university friends, and not only my own (although “friends” is a stretch in my case). In this type of group I always feel disgustingly small; once more the strange boy who is struggling to grow into his long limbs and sharp bone structure.

My hands come up to rest on her back through the fabric of the carrier, letting the warm lump of her reassure me. Her head rests just below my chin, bathing me in her comforting scent.

The three strangers in the group have apparently not seen John since their university days and spend a few tedious moments catching up. Before long, though, Stamford takes the conversation in a new direction by peering at the baby in my arms.

_Is this her?_

_This is my daughter_ , John confirms.

The sole focus of everyone present is suddenly focused on what little can be seen of her sleeping face within the fabric. I look up at them uncertainly, but they have no attention to spare for me, so I try to just sit it out until the moment passes. John ruins it all by introducing me.

 _And this is Sherlock Holmes._ I stiffly shake hands with the strangers while John continues: _Sherlock is the one who found her. He's the one who brought her to me._

I look over at him in surprise. He says this with a voice that sounds as though it's masking tiny explosions happening inside of him. _Sherlock is the one who brought her to me._ I did not know he thought of it that way.

They all look at me now. Smiling eyes I have no clue how to respond to.

 _She is adorable_ , a woman says, and I feel inexplicably proud. I also feel a bit guilty; surely John wishes he were the one who held her right now so he could show her off properly.

The woman goes on to ask John about her sleeping patterns. Stamford steps in closer to me, bending to get a better look at her face.

_She looks like you, Sherlock._

I want to freeze time the moment the words leave his mouth. I want to gather them up before they can evaporate in the air, mould them in iron and save them for all time. _Do you think so?_ It slips out of me before I can stop it, sounding pitiful and desperately thirsty.

_Yeah, I think she has your nose._

I stare at her tiny, perfect nose. I stare until there is a crash from the corner of the cafeteria when a tray falls to the floor. She sleeps on, entirely unfazed by the whole ordeal. Someone marvels at how peaceful she is, and John chuckles.

 _Of course_ , he says, _she's with her Sherlock._

Stamford must catch my reaction to these words even as I try to hide it, because he goes on to congratulate me as well. _What are you to her now – uncle?_

 _I don't know_ , John says before I can answer. _Extra father?_

A tremble goes through the earth beneath my chair. I look down at her peaceful face and realise that is indeed what I am to her. Every day, I hold her when she sleeps; and when she needs to sleep but can't, I sing until she does. I feed her; I dress her. I do not know her as intimately as John does, but I am there every day. To her, I am her second parent.

I am not certain that I even know what fatherhood means. What am I meant to be to her? How am I meant to love her? How will she love me back?

These questions shake me. I am unfocused for the rest of the afternoon, barely noticing the departure of John's friends, all my senses blurry until we are in a cab on our way back home. I am grateful for the dark. The hum of the engine grounds me. In the companionable silence I rest my hand on the feathery back of her head and close my eyes.

For the first time in my life I dare imagine a future. It feels reckless. I am perfectly aware that I could lose it before any of it has come to be. And I am frightened; afraid that my truest desires will turn out to be selfish ones that this child will come to despise. But I need to be honest with myself, I think. For her sake.

What do I want to be to her? Her idol? Someone to look up to? Do I want to do everything for her so that she will be forever grateful to me?

I am diving through the mind palace and beyond, beneath, to something less formed and thought-out. Behind closed eyelids my eyes are wide open for whatever secrets await me.

What I find makes a small sob of relief slip into my throat.

I do not need her admiration. I do not need her gratitude. I do not even need her to ever tell me she loves me.

I want her to know that SHE is MY idol. I want to support her in whatever path she chooses in her life. I want her to know that no matter what happens, she will always be admired by me; I want her to know without a doubt that I am the one person whose regard she will never lose.

I want to create a sanctuary around her. I want to provide the place that she can come back to after she has run all over the world, a place to rest and be free for a moment. I want her to feel that she has the space to be whatever she needs to when she is with me.

All I want is the privilege of being her haven.

When I open my eyes I notice they are wet. I can feel John watching me surreptitiously but I ignore him. I do something I have not yet dared to do in his presence, afraid to lay a claim that is not mine; I duck my head to place a kiss on her forehead.

John breathes out softly. I think maybe he understands.

Oh, of course he does. He knows her too.


	6. +1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter finished already! Thank you for reading and leaving comments and kudos - you people are so lovely. Another super soft fic is coming soon!

That evening we are on the sofa together, all three of us. John is in the right corner with her on his lap; she sprawls securely across his thighs in a hilariously casual pose, sleeping soundly. I am folded into the left corner, feet tucked to the side almost far enough to touch John's thigh with my toes.

“Almost” hurts no one.

The telly is on with the sound turned down so low it's almost muted. There is some sort of dance competition on that I pretend to be more annoyed with than I actually am; the premise is somewhat silly, but the choreographies are surprisingly enjoyable to watch.

John's phone lights up on the coffee table. As he reaches for it I catch the first line of a new text. Before I can produce a conscious thought about it there is a sudden sensation of liquid ice pouring into me and freezing my guts.

The woman from the cafeteria today. Of course. When the deduction reaches my mind I take a silent breath. I remind myself that everything is different now. That I have proven myself to be stronger than I think. That there is a baby asleep in the room with her arms flung above her head because she trusts me. She needs me. And she is proof that life goes on.

John reads the text and stills for a moment. Then he sighs and puts the phone back on the table. He doesn't type out a reply.

I refrain from glancing at him. _You could say yes, you realise._

He looks at me. I do not look back.

_There is no reason why you cannot go on a date. You know I don't mind taking care of her._

_Yeah, no._ John clears his throat. _I'm not interested in dating._

I do glance at him at that, but now his gaze is firmly fixed on the television screen. _I assure you we would be fine_ , I tell him. _I know exactly how to-_

 _I know. It's not that._ John looks down at her in his lap. _It's just that everything is different now. You know? Since she was born. It's changed what's important and what isn't._

He strokes her hand with his forefinger. Her fingers close around his in her sleep. Seeing the two of them together is the most beautiful thing I know.

 _But finding a woman has always been important to you._ I sit up straighter, folding my knees in front of me and hugging my legs against my chest.

He keeps watching her sleeping face. _I have no interest in dating women I don't know and barely like_ , he murmurs, as if to her. _That's never been what I wanted. Not really. I was interested in someone for years, but they didn't like me back, so-_

 _They?_ I curse myself for interrupting him, but it flies out of me before I can think. Why would he omit the pronoun?

John is silent. For every second that passes in which John stays silent, there is a ringing in my ears getting louder. It sounds as though every seam in my mind palace is creaking, trying to expand under the implication of new information.

_He._

The explosion inside the palace is deafening. John's voice blows through every room with one single word – _He._ – and leaves only white shock behind on the shelves.

I have no idea how long I am silent – how long I hold my breath – or what my face is doing in the meantime. But eventually John speaks again.

_But it matters less now that I have her. She is the most important thing in my life. Everything just falls away beside her. I had no idea it could be like that._

_I know what you mean_ , I hear my voice say.

He finally looks up at me. _You do?_

 _Yes._ I meet his gaze and a strange calm settles inside me. _She changes all my priorities around._ _There… was someone, but he wasn't available. It was difficult to cope with, but since she has arrived it all seems bearable._

I can see in his eyes that the pronoun _he_ causes a similar wreckage inside his mind as it did in mine. I cannot believe my own daring. He will know now.

I also cannot believe neither of us ever mentioned it. Perhaps we needed her presence for this conversation. The calmness she radiates settles in my chest and reassures me that it will all be okay. I really do mean what I said about priorities. Even though the outcome of this conversation matters hugely to me, I know that I will be able to accept any version of reality as long as I have still got her.

 _Who?_ John asks. It's blunt and greedy. He is staring at me as though the answer might be written in my pupils. In a metaphorical sense, I suppose it is.

My voice drops. _Surely you don't need to ask._

A great gust of breath punches out of John's lungs. He folds forward into his hands as if unable to keep himself upright any longer.

I wait for the panic to set in, the panic I was always so sure I would feel if he were ever to find this out. But all I feel is a wonderful calm.

When John's face emerges from his hands, his hair is dishevelled from where he has gripped it. His eyes are flaring. _Was. You said was._

_So did you._

He nods, averting his gaze back to her. His hand strokes through her thick hair. I watch his face as he carefully chooses his words.

_For me, that will never change._

I imagine his words hitting my solar plexus, seeping through my skin and carefully starting to bloom inside of me. I allow myself to sit with the radiating warmth of them for a moment.

She sighs from John's lap and my gaze drops to her. She is content in such a simple yet profound way, inspiring the same in me. Her face serves to remind me that this is reality. This is as real as the sleeping loveliness of her.

 _Do you think we can put her down?_ I ask conversationally.

John looks up at me, then gets to his feet without a word. He bends over the cradle to carefully lay her down. I rise to my feet when his back it turned, trying to calm my nervously beating heart.

John straightens and turns. He looks up at me and I memorise the exact way his face looks in this moment; the moment when I only have to reach out and gather him into my arms.

He fits against me in a way I never imagined he could. He steps in close; close enough that we almost lose our balance trying to stand on the same spot and claiming the other's space. My fingertips dip into the valley of his spine. His hands hold me firmly in place.

I did not think it was possible to hold someone so close. I can feel John everywhere.

I duck my head to breathe into his shoulder. He sighs; I feel it happen within the circle of my arms. He lays his cheek against the side of my neck. I can hear the relief in his breath.

The joy is so dense that it flows between us slowly, like honey.

I couldn't say how long we stand like that. Time bends around John Watson too. But in the end time pours back into the room when whimpering sounds emerge from the cradle.

Like I said; she hates sleeping alone.

I lift my head and slowly, earnestly press my lips to John's temple. I inhale and close my eyes; I nearly get high on the familiar scent of him. Then I end the kiss and speak against his skin.

_I'll get her._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [my racing mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995048) by [julidoesnotwrites (notjuli)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjuli/pseuds/julidoesnotwrites), [notjuli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjuli/pseuds/notjuli)




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